


smile through it (I can't)

by purplehedgehogskies



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Insecure Lance (Voltron), Keith works at a magazine I guess, Lance is so stressed, Lance teaches art and lifeguards and works at a bookstore because he's a busy bee, Light Klangst, M/M, Trouble In Paradise, angst with happy ending, bad communication skills!!, couples fighting for stupid reasons, established klance, they live together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-22 22:52:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10706823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplehedgehogskies/pseuds/purplehedgehogskies
Summary: “I can’t, Keith.”“You can’t what?” A pause. Lance peeked between his fingers to see Keith, the relief of resolution falling from his face as he realized this wasn’t over. Or rather, that it was.





	smile through it (I can't)

**Author's Note:**

> I had an idea during Klangst week but not enough time to get it done, so here I am a month later...  
> Honestly this isn't supposed to be pivotal literature or anything I just felt like writing it and felt like posting it instead of working on my numerous final papers. Yeah, I make great decisions.

Lance’s side of the bed was the closest to the window for a reason; he was a sunshine child who delighted in the warmth across his face every morning, while Keith burrowed deeper under the covers and grumbled. When this happened—when he was woken up by the sun reaching into their bedroom window to grace them with its life-giving glow—he rolled over and tossed back the blankets Keith hid beneath, peppering him with kisses. Sometimes Keith was receptive, and tangled his limbs up with Lance’s and pulled him in. Sometimes they had soft morning sex while the room lit up slowly around them.

Sometimes Keith kept grumbling—though it was a happy kind of grumpiness—and got out of bed just to stop the torrent of kisses that Lance brought upon him. Lance was okay with that outcome, too, and had grown used to it. He’d meet Keith in the kitchen later as the coffee brewed, offering up a kiss that didn’t stink of morning breath.

Today, when he rolled over, Keith wasn’t there. For a moment, Lance’s hand groped around the rumpled blankets as if he’d find his boyfriend hidden somewhere among them, before it fully dawned on him that Keith wasn’t there because Keith had probably never come to bed.

He sighed heavily, hauling himself up and throwing on a t-shirt before wandering out into the living room. He found Keith hunched over the cluttered desk that was pushed into one corner, with his face pressed into his laptop’s keyboard, a continuous stream of fives flowing from the cursor on his open document.

He started brewing the coffee before waking Keith, watching the way he blinked slowly into wakefulness, looking wonderfully soft before his face twisted up in a scowl.

This was not a happy kind of grumpiness. This was Keith in his most cantankerous state, the one that had made Lance cry more than once, the one that had showed up less and less as they grew closer and was almost nonexistent at the time they moved in together last fall. Though lately, Keith seemed closer to this angry side of himself than usual.

Lance tried to smile through it. “I’m making coffee, baby. Do you want any breakfast?”

“No.”

Lance hummed to himself and turned to leave, heading towards the bathroom for his morning hygiene and beauty regimen. Lately, he’d really had to buckle down on the skincare routine, dealing with breakouts here and there and everywhere. He knew what was causing it, but didn’t really want to think about why his stress was so prevalent now, in the summer, when he was only juggling two jobs instead of the three he’d had towards the end of the academic year. Now that he wasn’t teaching until the short summer session in August, Lance had so much less on his plate. But there were still things bothering him.

He tried to ignore them, smiling through it.

He was only in front of the mirror for roughly sixty seconds before Keith was in the doorway. He crossed his arms and looked at the array of products Lance had withdrawn from the medicine cabinet—Lance had explained what each one was for multiple times, but Keith didn’t retain the information. Now, instead of being perplexed, Keith just looked…unhappy. Lance felt it deeper in his gut than he should’ve.

“I need to take a shower.”

“Okay, go ahead,” said Lance, “I won’t be in your way very long.”

“Why did you let me do that?”

“Do what? Sleep at your desk?” Lance shook his head and reached for the headband he used to keep his bangs out of his face while he treated his skin. “I didn’t _let_ you—you refused to come to bed.”

“Well, now I don’t have an article to turn in today,” Keith said, pushing past him and opening the shower stall. He didn’t start stripping until he was obscured by the cloudy glass, tossing the clothes over the top. “And I didn’t get in my nightly shower. You care so much about your fucking routines, Lance, but what about mine?”

It was getting harder to smile through it. Instead, Lance swept up his products and moved to the bedroom, where he could apply them in front of the mirror on the closet door. He wasn’t sure if Keith kept talking, but he was finished by the time Keith was moving into the bedroom to get dressed and they passed each other in the hallway wordlessly.

Lance could feel a rash, or perhaps hives this time, sprouting along his forearms.

 ****

Hunk came over midday with ingredients for empanadas, and Lance talked while they cooked.

“I swear he acted mad that I wasn’t working today,” Lance mused, kneading the dough aggressively. It was probably kneaded enough, but he kept at it. “It’s not my fault I only have part-time stuff right now, it’s just how the chips have been dealt.”

“It’s how the chips have fallen,” Hunk said. “Or how the cards have been dealt? I’m not sure which one you’re going for, but you mixed up expressions.”

“Oh. Thanks,” said Lance. Normally he would laugh at himself, but he couldn’t really bring himself to do it today. “Anyway, I think that this is done.”

He backed away from the dough, wiping his floury hands off on his favorite blue apron. Hunk was just setting up the pan to start cooking the filling, and Lance watched him from his place leaning against the counter. It was close quarters in his small galley kitchen, and the cooking wasn’t making things any better, but when Hunk came over to cook Lance was reminded a little bit of his childhood, watching his mother cook in the tiny kitchen of their duplex, and before that the house in Cuba.

“I know your philosophy is trying to _smile through it_ ,” Hunk was saying, stirring up the sizzling meat in the pan. “But if you don’t say something, it will…it _could_ get worse.”

“Say what? ‘I feel like you work too much and you seem to think that I don’t work enough? You keep waking up cranky and taking it out on me?’” Lance turned around and bent his body forwards over the counter, pressing his face into his hands. “Should I bring up the fact that he said he doesn’t want to get married? To my face? When I _know_ that he knows I want to get married.”

“Is that really still bothering you? It’s been three months since he said that.”

“Yeah,” said Lance. “And it’s been three months since my hives came back.”

It wasn’t that he was unhappy—at least, he hadn’t been unhappy for three months. It was more like three weeks, and only periodically, when he felt like Keith looked at him and saw _lazy, incompetent, stupid_. When words that stung came out of Keith’s mouth and Lance couldn’t figure out where all his anger was coming from, or why it was directed at him. When moments passed where he wasn’t sure if Keith was going to stay with him. When moments passed where he wasn’t sure if he was going to stay with Keith.

And like he always did when he thought about leaving, Lance felt like crying.  

His phone buzzed against the counter, and he reached for it—a text from Keith, telling Lance he was working late and would get dinner at the office, which meant he was eating out of the vending machines. Lance wanted him home, eating empanadas and watching HGTV on the couch, not crammed into a cubicle with a soggy vending machine sandwich. He hated when they spent their nights alone like this, hated when Keith didn’t come to bed at night, hated when he was home late and didn’t get to kiss Lance goodnight.

It pushed him over the edge, tears freely flowing as he tried to type out an unaffected response with trembling fingers. He was dimly aware of Hunk turning down the stove, wrapping and refrigerating the dough, washing his hands before planting his wide palm between Lance’s shaking shoulders in a gesture of comfort.

“He won’t be home for dinner,” Lance managed, his voice cracking. “Sorry bud, I know you wanted to see him.”

Hunk was shaking his head, drawing Lance closer to his body for a hug. It always felt better to be held, especially by the enormous teddy bear that was his best friend. But still, it felt like everything hurt, even though he didn’t have any real bodily pain.

“I know this is stressful,” said Hunk, his hand stroking up and down Lance’s back as he talked, “I understand what it’s like for things to be tense in a relationship. You really need to talk to him, Lance.”

“I know.” His face was pressed into Hunk’s chest, so his words came out more like grunts. He pulled back, at least enough so that he could be understood. “I’m scared. I know what could happen, and it’s not…it’s not unlikely, Hunk. He could decide to leave me. I could decide…I might have to…”

He couldn’t even say it. He knew what he was facing. If they wanted different things, if their relationship was unraveling, if they weren’t happy…it didn’t matter how much he loved Keith. It didn’t matter how he loved to roll over and kiss him every morning or how satisfying it was to press his face into Keith’s fluffy dark hair. The good moments didn’t matter so much when tensions undermined the whole structure they’d built their life on.

“It’ll be okay,” said Hunk. “It’ll be okay.”

Lance wasn’t sure it would, but he hoped that Hunk was right.

****

Lance ate dinner with Hunk and bid him a bittersweet goodbye—he had a skype call with Shay to get to, and Lance had a night of waiting around ahead of him. He tried to laugh when he said it out loud, standing in the doorway of the apartment, but the way Hunk looked at him with that sad-pity smile told Lance that he wasn’t very successful.

Once the door was closed and the apartment lonely and quiet again, Lance changed into a sleep shirt and stripped off his pants. He returned to the living room, putting on HGTV and turning out the lights. He sat in the dark and watched couples choose their houses, where they’d live their happy married lives with their kids and dogs, doing dumb couple things like hosting dinner parties and picking out backsplashes.

He paused the episode he was on at ten—when Keith had said he’d be home by nine-thirty—and popped popcorn. Maybe, if he arrived soon, they could still watch the tail end of this particular _House Hunters: International_ together, and maybe one more after that.

When he sat down again, the popcorn sat mostly untouched. Keith would’ve devoured it by the handful and then threatened to rub his greasy, salty hands on Lance’s face.

He felt almost like he lived alone.

Keith came home with a clatter of keys and a heavy sigh, mumbling something that was maybe “goodnight” but certainly not “I love you” as he shuffled down the hallway. Lance turned off the TV and went after him, finding him collapsed face-down on the bed in his clothes, barely having paused to kick off his shoes.

“You’re not sleeping like that,” said Lance. Despite the ache he felt at Keith’s late late late arrival, he knelt on the edge of the bed and pulled at Keith’s socks. “Come on.”

“Laaance, I’m tired.”

“Keeeeith, you’re wearing a nice shirt,” Lance said, tossing the socks aside and crawling up the bed to start undoing Keith’s buttons. “And slacks. That’s not conducive to sleeping or to preserving the integrity of your clothes, my man. So strip.”

Keith rolled onto his side, his face scrunching up when he yawned. Then, blinking blearily at Lance, Keith said, “Hi.”

Despite himself, Lance smiled at his rumpled, sleepy boyfriend.

“Hey,” he said, untangling Keith from his dress shirt and tossing it towards the hamper. “Pants, now.”

“You comin’ onto me?”

“No,” said Lance. He paused. “Keith?”

Keith was sitting up now, reaching out. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, we can talk about it in the morning,” said Lance hurriedly, taking Keith’s hands and lowering them to the bed, wordlessly saying ‘I don’t want you to touch me’ because he knew he would start crying. “I love you?”

Why did it sound like a question?

“I love you too,” Keith said, and he started wiggling out of his pants himself. Lance laid himself out on his side of the bed, rolling over when Keith flopped back down, his back to Keith. He evened out his breathing so it seemed like he’d fallen asleep. He was relieved when Keith stayed on his side, relieved when he started mumbling his dream-nonsense—a sure sign he was dead asleep—and relieved when he didn’t wake up to the sound of Lance leaving the room.

 ****

He went back in the morning, before Keith woke up. He lay there as the sun came up and filled the room, letting Keith wake up to it. Instead of leaning in for a kiss, Lance just watched the sunlight spill in.

“Are we going to be lazy this morning?” Keith asked, nudging Lance’s leg with his foot. Lance grunted, screwing his eyes shut and pretending to be asleep, but Keith wasn’t giving up. He pressed up against Lance’s back and kissed the spot where his oversized shirt slipped off his shoulder just a bit. “Okay, I just gotta pee. I’ll be back.”

Keith slipped out of bed and walked off, leaving Lance to decide what to do next. He’d said he’d talk about it, but did he really have the nerve?

Keith was back in a few minutes, his footfalls silent but his yawn announcing his presence. Lance knew how lovely he looked without turning his head, and the image made his thoughts all the more painful.

“Do you ever think about how we have only one window? It’s like _A Raisin in the Sun_ and that one window is super, super symbolic. But I can’t figure out what it means,” said Lance, gazing out the window in question, at the roof of the building next door. A stray cat was wandering along it, and Lance wondered blandly how he’d gotten up there and how he was going to get down.

Behind him, Keith chuckled lightly as he crawled back into bed. “No, not really. Didn’t you read that in tenth grade? How do you remember the window? Of all things?”

“I remember lots of things. Even when people think I’m not paying attention.”

“True.”

Lance made himself numb and said, “Sometimes I think about leaving.”

There it was, thrown out onto the bedcovers between them. A pulsing, writhing, horrible truth that Lance had just spat out like it meant nothing.

“Well, the lease is up in six months,” Keith was saying, even as the truth screamed. “We could look for another place, if you want, with more windows. There’s a building near the office that I hear has some nice studios…”

Lance bent in half, his face in his hands, gasping out a sob. He couldn’t keep himself numb. Keith stopped talking, and Lance felt the mattress dip behind him as Keith moved closer, felt his fingers find purchase in the fabric of Lance’s t-shirt.

“Hey…”

Lance shot up, fleeing the side of the bed, fleeing Keith’s gentle touch. He found himself in the gap between the end of the bed and the wall they hadn’t known what to do with, so they’d hung up one of Lance’s paintings—happy splashes of red and blue that didn’t fit into the reality that was unfolding in the room right now. It didn’t fit into the world where Keith was looking at him with a mixture of concern and confusion, where he felt bloodless but his heart was pumping _something_. Probably liquid fear, Lance thought, or wanting, or sorrow. Could feelings be liquid that rushed through his veins?

“Keith,” he choked out, “I meant sometimes I think about leaving _you_.”

He couldn’t look at Keith anymore.

Lance stumbled out of the room, his bare feet landing on the cool bathroom tile. He turned on the cold water and filled a paper cup, tossing it back as soon as it overflowed onto his hand. He drank another, and another, until Keith filled the doorway and demanded, “Lance, _what the fuck?_ ”

His tone was angry, but in a raw and bleeding way. _You’re hurting me, so I’m angry. Why are you hurting me?_

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Clutching his paper cup, Lance sat unceremoniously on the small bathroom rug and curled into some semblance of the fetal position. “I feel like I’m going to puke.”

“What did I do?” Keith asked. Desperate fingers latched onto Lance’s cup and threw it into the trash can, and Keith wrapped his hands firmly around his wrists to pull his hands from his face. He knelt there, on the edge of the rug, still touching Lance as if he hadn’t just blown everything to pieces. “Was it something I said yesterday, when I woke up at the desk? I’m sorry for whatever I said, Lance. Lance, please.”

“It’s not you,” he said, instinctively. Because most of it wasn’t Keith’s fault—it was just a discrepancy in what they wanted that had boiled over, burnt, festered in Lance’s mind until he couldn’t ignore it anymore. “It’s me, I’m not enough.”

“I love you,” Keith said. “What do you mean you’re not enough? I love you.”

There was frustration in Keith’s voice as he drew away, pushing himself to his feet. They’d had that fight before, and Lance knew it was tiring that he kept pushing for validation and Keith kept having to give it, until he sounded like a broken record— _you’re enough, I love you, you’re enough._ _Why do I keep having to say it? I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true._

“I don’t have a steady job because the bookstore is so overly flexible and the pool keeps closing because of the rain and we lose money, and I should’ve just done physics instead of dropping my double major—”

“Bullshit,” Keith interjected. “I’ve always supported you. I want you to do what makes you happy.”

“Well maybe,” Lance said, wiping the snot from his nose and using the counter as leverage to stand up, where he towered a couple inches over Keith’s head, “if you didn’t act like a dick every time I miss a day at work. Since, you know, it’s not my fault.”

“I knew it was about yesterday,” Keith said. “I didn’t mean it like that. You complain about my work, too. If anyone feels unsupported…”

“What?” Lance reeled back, genuinely shocked. He had always thought he was Keith’s biggest cheerleader, but apparently, Keith didn’t think so. “You don’t feel like I support you? I know I…complain. When you go to work. I complain because…because I feel like you’re working too hard and I don’t want you to work too hard, Keith. You’re never home and when you are, you’re working, and _I miss you_.”

“It’s not just work.” Keith was leaving the bathroom now, and for a moment this felt like a trivial fight, something they would argue about and then get over, and it would all be fine in the end. Lance knew it wasn’t.

“What do you mean?” Lance asked, following, as he would have if it _were_ that kind of fight.

“ _Cryptid guy_ ,” Keith said derisively, stomping into the kitchen to mess with the cabinet doors. “Your coworkers at the bookstore, even some of the professors at the school, when I introduce myself as your boyfriend they all say ‘Oh, you’re the cryptid guy.’ Like it’s funny.”

“I like your cryptids. I like that you’re passionate about them,” Lance said, shaking his head, leaning heavily on the counter like he had when Hunk was over, when he’d cried forever because he dreaded this fight with Keith, which wasn’t even about work or his cryptids or the way he’d bitched at Lance after waking up yesterday morning. “They’re like what my art is to me. And I couldn’t make fun of you for that. I _brag_ about you. I’m fucking proud of my cryptid guy.”

A hot swell of tears rose up in Lance’s eyes, because he was proud. He did love Keith. But this conversation was patching up holes that weren’t really the source of the problem, and in a strange way it was making Lance feel worse. Keith had said he supported Lance, he loved Lance and wanted him to be happy. Those weren’t things said by the man you leave, they were things said by the man you _marry_.

“I’m sorry about bringing up money so much,” Keith said, shutting the cabinet doors again and turning to look at Lance. “It’s only because it stresses me out, not because I want to guilt you. I’m sorry.”

It shattered Lance’s contemplative silence, and he hid his face behind his hands again—he couldn’t find the resolve to look at Keith again, Keith whom he loved, Keith whom he was trying to break up with even though he wanted nothing else but to spend the rest of their lives together.

“I can’t, Keith.”

“You can’t what?” “A pause. Lance peeked between his fingers to see Keith, the relief of resolution falling from his face as he realized this wasn’t over. Or rather, that it was. “No, no, we’re talking this out. I thought…” his voice cracked. Keith was a balance of anger and hurt, of strength and vulnerability—both scales tipped towards the latter, tonight, and it was Lance’s fault.

“It’s not about the money or the work, Keith, I’m saying this all wrong.”

“Then why do you want to leave me?” Keith’s breath caught on _leave me_ , and Lance felt like the scum of the earth as he watched the tears start. Keith usually didn’t cry when they argued—he showed cracks in his resolve, even let his voice waver, but rarely did he actually shed any tears. The idea of Lance leaving must’ve been devastating—Keith had been left by his parents as a kid, had been discarded time and time again by friends and foster parents, and just when he thought he’d found something permanent…

“I’m sorry,” Lance sobbed, regretting ever emerging from behind his hands. He pulled away from where he was leaning against the counter, at the opposite end of the kitchen from Keith, and started down the hall.

“Lance, please,” Keith begged. “Please don’t. I love you, Lance.”

Footsteps followed quickly after him, followed him into the bedroom to watch helplessly as Lance returned to the bed, perched at the edge. He stared at the closet, knowing that his duffel bag was inside—if he was going to leave, that would be the first step. Actually packing up and leaving.

Not all of his things would fit in that bag. He wondered if Keith would let him come back for his other belongings, or if it would all be lost.

All was lost, anyway.

Keith sunk to the ground in front of him, his face streaked with tears and his hands trembling as he reached for Lance’s hands, where his fingers were digging into the thin skin at his knees.

“We can fix it, Lance. Can’t we fix it?” Keith asked. Lance let him wrap his hands around Lance’s limp ones, squeezing tightly. “I don’t understand, Lance, please help me understand what’s wrong. Do you…do you still love me?”

“Yes,” he said. “But I can’t give up on what I want, Keith. I can’t stay like this forever.”

“Okay, we’ll move,” said Keith. “We’ll get a cat. Or a dog, I know you love dogs. I’m so close to getting a promotion, Lance, you can go back to school and get a physics degree, or get your masters in art. We can do anything, _anything_ if you just stay.”

“Except get married?”

Keith paused, his jaw dropping slightly in shock. Slowly, he managed to work out the words, “What…what do you mean?”

“You don’t want that. You said so,” said Lance. “I don’t know if I can stay if we want different things, Keith.”

“When? When did I say that?”

“My sister’s wedding,” said Lance. “You came up to me and you said ‘I never want to do this’ and then asked if I wanted to dance, as if I could move on from that so quickly.”

He remembered it so clearly, the one event that had sent everything tumbling down. He hadn’t known, before, what Keith wanted. They hadn’t actually had a serious conversation about it, though Lance had always been clear about his intentions to marry Keith someday. He’d been shocked to hear that Keith didn’t plan on that, because he’d never objected before when marriage came up.

Keith settled back on his haunches, still holding loosely onto Lance’s hand.

“Fuck. I wondered why you seemed mad at me when I woke up in the morning,” said Keith. “You know I was kind of drunk, right?”

“Yeah. You still said it.”

“But I didn’t mean it like _that_ , I meant the…the hoopla. The extravagance. The gazillion people,” Keith waved his hand around, as if the things he was talking about where there instead of months away in a banquet hall. “Why didn’t you just talk to me about it?”

“Well, I was afraid of what I’d hear,” said Lance. “I was afraid you’d feel pressured or something. And…I thought about not getting married. I thought about staying with you like this forever—this is good, mostly, but I couldn’t do it forever. I want the house and the fluffy pet and the cute husband. I want to be a dad. The stuff the people on _House Hunters_ have. I thought that you didn’t want any of that, and they’re things I can’t give up.”

“Okay, okay, but listen. If you would have just told me,” Keith said, still sniffling, “I would’ve said I want that stuff too. I didn’t used to, because I didn’t know if there was a person I wanted to be with, but I want that stuff with you. Just. A small wedding. In a few years. I’m not ready for any of that _now_.”

“Oh.”

Lance felt like an idiot. There was still guilt, so much guilt, but with the addition of feeling so _incredibly stupid_. He lay backwards on the bed and stared at the ceiling, still shaking with the fear that came with almost losing everything. Keith seemed unsteady too, rising to his feet and sitting at the head of the bed, picking up his pillow and holding it in his lap.

“Yeah,” Keith huffed. “Do me a favor and never,” Keith whipped the pillow at Lance, smacking him in the stomach. As he went on, he stopped to land another feathery, plushy blow after each word, “Never. Do. This. To. Me. Again.”

“Fighting? We can’t not fight, Keith,” said Lance, rolling towards him and sinking his fingers into Keith’s pillow the next time he swung it. “But yes. I’ll never…leave you. Or try to leave you, I guess?”

“You scared me. I was _scared_ ,” Keith admitted. Lance sat up and sat facing him, the pillow on the bed between them.

 “I was scared I was going to leave, too.”

“You don’t make sense,” said Keith, punching the pillow weakly. His voice was still heavy with his tears but he sounded better, more like his usual self. “I’m asking my married friend Harry for the number of his couples’ therapist.”

Lance laughed lightly, and then stopped as Keith turned to get his phone from the bedside table and started scrolling through it. “Wait, are you serious?”

“Oh, fuck yes I am. I’m never coming this close to losing you again,” said Keith, typing away. “If that means we have to talk about our problems in front of a stranger for an hour every few weeks, you better bet we’re doing it."

“Keith?”

“Hmm?” Keith grunted.

“I think we have a lot of problems,” Lance said. “Not _a lot_ a lot. But, you know, things we don’t talk about that we should. I just didn’t know how.”

“I know,” said Keith, setting aside his phone and brushing Lance’s bangs back from his face.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know,” said Keith, kissing Lance’s forehead. He sniffled, then swore. “Shit, now there’s more people on the list.”

“What list?”

“The list of people who know I have feelings,” said Keith, curling up against Lance. “My tough man guy image is ruined.”

“You cry when you see kittens, Keith,” said Lance. “I have a video of it that I showed all your coworkers while you were in the bathroom at the office Christmas party.”

“What the fuck? That’s why they keep sending me cat videos!”

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah, it's very clear here that I wanted a little angst but nothing more distressing than ALMOST breaking up. Just couldn't do that apparently. I break my own heart enough.  
> I know that what they're arguing about changes up and doesn't make sense the whole time, but that's what arguments are like for me most of the time. Like you can't just fight about one thing and you can't make sense and you can't seem to say what you want to say...so yeah.  
> Yay for Keith deciding to take steps towards a healthier, more communicative relationship, even if it means asking for help!


End file.
